Cold Memories
by ari2266
Summary: I DO NOT OWN BLEACH. Sarah Parker has been on love with a man who is not in this world. The rain is falling... and he is here... Yeah... I suck at summaries. This is for chaosmagiciangirl. :D :D Enjoy!
1. Murcielago

The clouds gathered like soft wisps of an ever changing sea, their colours melding and blending, becoming darker and darker, raising to fluffy heads, before crashing down, only to rise into even greater heights. Their tone darkened, changing from the soft, white foam that entertains children with strange shapes, into dark, malevolent mist that seemed to drain the warmth from the very ground.

People in the streets recognised these early signs of an autumn storm, and hurried to their cars or buses, clutching their bags tightly as though the wind that was beginning to howl through the streets would rip them away. The contented afternoon laughter that usually filled the air was hushed into ready silence, as the city prepared itself for the coming storm. Based from the signs, it was going to be huge.

Click Clock Click Clock

Her plain, black court shoes clicked noisily against the hard, grey pavement - her footsteps were short and erratic. She had to get inside, she just HAD to! The sky rumbled ominously, and a single, glistening raindrop fell from the heavens to land gently on her cheek, its trail heading south, creating a tear like effect on her otherwise dry face. Hazel eyes gazed up slowly, a pleading look overcoming their features as the clouds finally opened, and drenched the exposed young woman in a matter of seconds.

Clutching her folder to her chest, and her bag to her hip, she sprinted to the nearest undercover awning – a flower shop, of all things – and settled against a moderately graffitied wall to wait – knowing there was no way in hell the rain was going to end anytime soon. Just look at those clouds – all black and grey, a smattering of white, and even a bit of eerie green to set them off. Raising a hand to her forehead, the young woman sighed, and tried not to think how much she may have ruined her photos and sketches due to her misplaced sense of time, and her inattention to the weather.

Using her hand to smooth back her now wet, vibrantly orange hair, the young, black and purple clad woman raised the manila folder to her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the cover, preparing herself for the worst. Scanning the pages quickly, a look of intense relief plastered itself over her otherwise stoic face, giving it a natural light that was otherwise overshadowed by her usual seriousness. Flicking through the contents with her thumb, a hungry look came into her catlike eyes, as she absorbed every line, every shade of her work. She never got tired of observing her pieces – she knew it was a small market for her kind of work, but it made her so content doing what she did. Raising her gaze to the street, she tucked the folder back under her arm and kept her eyes peeled for a taxi.

Sarah Parker was still in high school when she fell in love. She worshipped her interest, and kept her love well tended and cared for, like an expert gardener. People often asked her if she was serious when and if she chose to tell them of her passion, to which she replied, "of course – I love him with all the heart I have." There were those who thought she was strange, or weird for loving someone so different, so... unique. But she didn't care – she gathered her own strength and set out on her own on the day she turned 18, determined to be stopped by nothing – only that her love be recognised through her art.

However. The man she loved was not a man at all. The man she loved had died four years ago... in a tragic battle, written by Tite Kubo. Her love was Ulquiorra Schiffer.

Though years had passed since the manga _Bleach_ had finished production, and the writers were no doubt basking on a mountain of cash somewhere in Okinawa, the legacy that they left behind continued to live on. The anime was as popular as ever, and there were still many cosplayers at conventions, and silly fan girls willing to glomp them. However... no matter how many times they were read, not matter how many times Sarah went over the pages... he never returned. Her love. Her lord.

Ulqiourra...

Seeing a yellow vehicle coming down the street, the young redhead dashed out into the stinging downpour to hail it with all her might. She saw the lights come closer and begged that it had seen her – she didn't have the energy to walk to the subway now, not after the day she had had. She kept waving, desperately swinging her hand in the air, and trying to shield her belongings at the same time.

WHOOSH!

The yellow sedan flew by, creating a small tsunami which rose over her head and nearly drowned her as she tried to protect herself from it. A small cry of pain tore from her throat as she realised there was no way her folder would have survived that – her art was ruined.

Stumbling back several steps, Sarah tripped, and went flying onto her side, jarring her elbow heavily. Her bag fell with a splat about two feet away and her folder slipped from her fingers, the individual pages sliding out across the pavement to be totally soaked by the heavy downpour, and the near flood it was creating in the empty street. She lay there for a moment, collecting her thoughts as the rain continued to fall, the icy water creeping through her hair and down her neck, causing her to shiver pleasantly. It was so cold.

What was she going to do now? This was the eleventh gallery that had rejected her exhibition art, not to mention that she barely had enough money in the bank to afford the taxi she tried to signal. A small bubble of laughter caught in her throat, but she swallowed it, and forced herself to breathe calmly, reminding herself that no matter what the situation, calm and rational was always the best way to go.

A pair of black, wing tipped shoes stopped before her eyes, her ears not having picked up any sound at all due the weight of the rain. She wouldn't look at this stranger, and allow them to pity her. She wouldn't.

"Why are you on the ground? You're in my way."

The deep, rolling voice sounded like shards of ice wrapped in a blanket of dark clouds. She looked up, red locks parting from her face, the rain stinging her cheeks as she tried to locate the owner of those feet. Her gaze was sharp, and angry - who was this trash that dismissed her so easily? She wouldn't stand for it!

Green eyes. Pale skin.

It was so very cold. This rain. So very, very cold.

It was...

It couldn't be...

It was impossible....

"Who... are you?" She asked, her voice nearly drowning through the sheet of grey rain. Her eyes travelled up the perfectly tailored white suit, the long coat tails, the pale hands and black tipped nails. She noted the high collar, and the precise way the white umbrella was held. And when her gaze reached his shadowed face, her breathe caught in her throat, and for a moment – a single, shining moment – she let herself believe. "U...Lord Schiffer?" She whispered, her words lost on the wings of _maybe_.

The light shifted, and his face suddenly came into sharp relief. Green eyes. He had GREEN EYES! A nose a master sculptor had caved, and lips put there by the gods themselves. Pale skin, sharp jaw line and roughly cut, long dark hair. There were a few differences however – there was no bone fragment mask, or hollow hole near his neck. His skin was pale, but not pure white. Was it really him, then? But the similarities... they were... uncanny...

Those green eyes stared, unfeelingly upon the small, wet human in front of him. What had she called him? Lord? Strange, that she should know respect like that... from her appearance, she appeared to be no more than a poor, stray animal, caught in the rain. How did she know him? True, he did have random people calling him by name occasionally, but he ignored them, feeling more annoyance than anything – that such trash would deign to call him by his first name, and then mangle it beyond recognition... it was beyond rude. For reasons unknown, he seemed to resemble someone that people recognised... how odd. Yet this... woman... seemed to not only recognise him, but also recognise his status – that was a first. Interesting.

"I asked you a question, girl. Why are you on the ground – are you unaware that this weather is not best for ones health? Do you wish to become ill? If that is the case, I shall leave you to your stupidity." He took a step forward, till the protective edge of his umbrella was mere millimetres from her fingertips, his curiosity overriding his usual self-interest. Was she deaf? Possibly. She seemed to be trembling, her hands unwilling to collect her belongings that lay scattered about her. Those green eyes shifted once again, and came to focus on a water logged piece of paper.

Surprise - a reaction he hadn't felt in years, spread through his calm, calculating mind like a fresh, spring breeze. How strange, it was... a portrait of himself. Yet, he was... different. He seemed to be wearing a hybrid suit/hakama of the Japanese style, and there was some kind of strange helmet on his hair. He lowered his head slightly and covered the picture with his umbrella, becoming more curious as he found more anomalies within it. His skin was deathly white, and there seemed to be some sort of wound in his neck, though perfectly cut. And for some bizarre reason, he was wearing a type of black lip tint.

His gaze shifted back to the frozen young woman who stared at him as though he were the sun, and she had lived her life in darkness. She had a look of almost unbearable happiness on her features as he took a moment to consider her. She SEEMED normal – if wet, and stunned. But there was something strange here... something... familiar. A single twitch of his neck betrayed his thoughts as he looked from her to the sodden sheets of paper and back again. Was she a stalker? A reporter? Or maybe...

"You are an artist?" It sounded more like a statement, than a question, but it produced a reaction finally, as the girl nodded in reply, and used one hand to push back her hair behind her ear, so she could see him better. "Why have you drawn me?" No reaction – just a slight widening of the eyes.

Sarah tried to collect her racing thoughts – this man... this real man... was talking to her. Was SPEAKING with her. She had to regain her centre, she HAD to. Shaking her head slightly, she dragged her feet from beneath her, and stood, ignoring her bag and her sketches. They were irrelevant now. Standing only three centimetres outside of his protective umbrella, she realised her nose barely reached his chin. She saw the white puffs of air that reassured her of his life, and wondered just exactly how he came to be here, in the rain in front of her.

"Tell me," She said softly, hazel eyes ducking in respect, before staring into his with renewed intensity, her focus now totally on the verbal exchange she knew was coming. Finally, a mind to meet, and possibly beat her own.

"...do you know the meaning of murcielago?"

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Ulquiorra

Murcielago…

The word floated through time and space – a mere shadow of a memory which was snatched away by the winds of confusion. The green eyed man raised a hand to his temple and tried to capture the tail end of that shadow… it was so familiar… and so very, very… dangerous…

Sarah waited with bated breath, the rain dripping off the lengths of her hair, and running down her face in rivulets. She ignored the irritation – barely even noticed it at all – as she anxiously stood in front of this man who had stopped, in the rain in front of her. As though he had stepped out of the pages of book, or reached through the screen to enter this world – he was in front of her, here, in the rain... and he was real.

Minutes passed, but she waited patiently. Her anxiety and disbelief was building with each moment, but she had never imagined that something like this was even scientifically possible – so she wasn't going to screw it up now with idle chatter and rude impatience. Her eyes didn't leave his face for an instant, and she knew the moment he had come to a decision, by the way he lowered the hand form his forehead and stared at her as though they had never even met in the first place. Indeed, his glance was so bland, one might have mistaken it for masking a fear of the unknown.

"I do not recognize the word. And you have still not answered my question." His voice was dark and cold, like the night time breeze over a snowy field. Sarah's heart continued to beat rapidly, her hands clenched by her sides as she flinched from his answer. NO… it had to be… the similarities were too coincidental… not to mention he had asked her why she had drawn HIM… It had to be... it just HAD to!

"Those sketches there are not of me. But I am not altogether displeased with your representation." His monotone voice was slow and calm. Her eyebrows raised higher at his comment – he recognized himself… it was… it really was….him…

Her breaths came out in small puffs of white as the rain continued to fall. The pale faced man finally stepped closer, the rim of his umbrella shadowing the girls' form from the heavenly onslaught. Her eyes followed his, and she shivered in reply to that empty gaze- it was so real… it was… so HIM… so Ulquiorra. She just HAD to answer him… and by doing so, find out more about him.

"Th…those pictures… they are of a male warrior… an intellectual of enormous intelligence. He disappeared a few years back… on the cusp of realizing human emotion. He turned to ash." She stopped, watching his reaction – but of course – there was none. His eyes remained cold. His grasp on the umbrella didn't twitch. He was motionless, listening to her words. She gulped and finally said the title: "His name was Ulquiorra Schiffer."

One step. Two Steps. Three steps.

He slowly backed away from her, his face motionless, and shadowed by the umbrella. Without moving head face, he rounded her and walked swiftly away, his long strides taking him past the shell shocked rain maiden, and off into the haze of the downpour. As he left, she saw his left hand snake into his pocket. So familiar.

Sarah stared after him for minutes on end – wishing his return, but knowing there was no avail – wishes didn't come true that way – you had to MAKE them happen. If wishes were pennies, she would be rich by now! Still unable to believe the strange rendezvous, the girl slowly turned to pick up her art, placing the soaking pieces neatly into the plastic folder and stepping unhurriedly back to the bus stop shelter. Her hands were still – her skin was freezing. But beyond all this… she knew… today she had met him. Her love….

Ulquiorra…

***

Quira strode into his loft apartment and swiftly turned on the lights. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he straightened his jacket and left the umbrella by the door. A servant met him within two feet of entering the spacious entertainment area.

"Would Sir be requiring any pre-dinner refreshments?" The butler asked, his uniform and etiquette impeccable – Quira would have it no other way.

"No, I will not be taking dinner tonight. I will be working in the study, and am not to be disturbed." His voice was cold, calm and even – as always. The butler bowed and skated off to the kitchen no doubt dispose of a five star meal. Quira removed his outer jacket and laid it gently on the white couch before retreating through a small door on the left to his private study.

He had to find out more about this girl… this artist and her drawings. He had to know what it was that had reacted so strongly within him to that name… that strange, familiar name…

Ulquiorra…

Ulquiorra Schiffer….

***

TO BE CONTINUED…


End file.
